


of sharpened knives and shortened lives

by skylarkblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emma Lives (Supernatural: Slice Girls), Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, emmawinchesterweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22544230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylarkblue/pseuds/skylarkblue
Summary: Amazons are stronger than they look, and Lydia will not give up on her daughter.Written for #emmawinchesterweek over on tumblr.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	of sharpened knives and shortened lives

Emma is the greatest gift of Lydia’s short life. She looks up with her huge, dark eyes, framed with doelike lashes, and gurgles at Lydia, blowing a raspberry and giggling. She kicks her little legs in the air and shakes her fists, laughing, and Lydia smiles down at her, her first daughter, her pride and joy.

The girl grows like a weed, developing rapidly through what should be her first five years of life in far too short a time. Lydia holds her as often as she can, but reminds herself not to coddle her. Emma is, after all, destined to be an Amazon warrior. A warrior does not need to be babied. But still, she can’t help it, brushing Emma’s long blonde hair slowly, relishing the moment. Motherhood suits her. She thinks it every time she catches her reflection.

Soon it is time for Emma to go, too soon, and Lydia holds her hand tight and takes a deep breath and tells herself that this is the right thing, this is just, and thank the gods Harmonia blessed her with a daughter. Those cursed with sons must remove them permanently from the tribe. It is messy work, and a great shame for a young Amazon woman to bear a son. Lydia has been blessed with a daughter, a most perfect daughter, and she does not want to let her go.

“I’ll be okay, mama,” Emma says quietly as they wait for Madeline to arrive. “The priestess will teach me to be strong, so I will carry on your legacy.”

“I know you will, baby,” Lydia says, dropping her hand as Madeline appears outside. She walks to the door and opens it, greeting the women on the other side, the priestesses who had overseen Lydia’s own initiation. 

Before they leave, she kneels and clasps a gold locket around Emma’s neck, and glances up to the sky, silently begging the necklace - and the girl wearing it - will return to her. It was her mother’s locket, and it was passed down to her when she had completed her own initiation. The pride Lydia had felt when that necklace had been placed her, still fresh with her father’s blood, had been indescribable. She hopes it will give Emma her strength, a tangible reminder that her mother will be waiting for her on the other side.

“I’ll see you soon,” Lydia whispers to the retreating car. She hopes she’s right.

* * *

Emma is scared. She knows she isn’t supposed to be, because fear is only the tool of a warrior when they are inflicting it, but she’s scared anyway. She’s scared of the priestesses and their strange chants, their cold eyes, the way Madeline seems to always know when you’re doing wrong. 

They have already gone through the first phase of their initiation, eating the kill of one of their sisters. It had been slimy and still warm, and slid down Emma’s throat far too easily. She had almost gagged, immediately swallowing some milk to get the horrendous taste from her mouth. If she could, she was never going to consume human flesh again. It was bad enough they used them for breeding, but food? It disgusted her. The next phase, she knew, was a trial by fire, burning the Mark of Harmonia into their flesh so they could prove they could control their pain. The idea frightened her, but everyone else seemed so relaxed, excited even, that she knew better than to voice her concerns.

They do not sleep, they only train. Sleep will come later, Madeline says, when they complete their initiation and are welcomed into the tribe. Emma takes the handful of knives they have given her and aims at the target set up in the middle of the room. The first two hid it square in the middle, but the third keels off to the side, narrowly missing the target and burying itself in the wall. Emma winces, mumbling “oops”, and goes to retrieve it. It takes a solid yank to pull it out of the drywall, but nobody else seems to have noticed. She returns to the target, to her training, and tries again.

She keeps at it until she hits the bullseye every time.

She fights with her sisters. They spar, grappling each other and beating each other, throwing punches and tackles alike. One of the older Amazons throws them each a sword and they must battle with those, proving they are adept with any weapon. They learn quickly, so quickly, and the amount of information rushing through Emma’s head is too much at once, but she knows she must work hard to make the tribe proud. With a grunt, she flips her sister onto her back and pins her there, blade at her throat, and pants from the exertion. She hears applause behind her and glances up to see the cold, foreboding figure that is Madeline watching her, clapping slowly. Madeline nods at her, once, and then gestures for Emma to follow her.

In her office, Madeline tells Emma the truth of her lineage. She is not just the daughter of a warrior, but a hunter too. To kill is in her blood. Madeline unfolds a black cloth, revealing a knife about the length of Emma’s forearm. It is old, far older than them both, and shines bronze in the light. “This was your mother’s,” Madeline tells her, “and her mother’s before it. It can be traced all the way back to Marpesia herself, one of our greatest queens, Emma.”

Emma nods, knowing what is coming next. She will go be branded with Harmonia’s mark and be given the knife of her foremothers, and she will kill her father, the hunter Winchester. A warrior of his people, too.

After her trial by fire, she is ready. Emma packs with her the knife that was handed to her by Madeline, and her throwing knives, tucked away in the back pocket of her jeans. She stops and looks at the warehouse one last time before getting into the car that will take her to her first kill. She finds herself homesick for Lydia’s, but she doesn’t voice it, because a good warrior does not have opinions, only thoughts, and this, she knows, is something that can remain a thought.

She leaves the car and stands outside with her fists clenched at her sides, taking a few steadying breaths. He’s on the other side of that door. Her father, the hunter. They warned her he would be a tough kill - and that the glory of killing him would make her blessed in the eyes of Harmonia. She nods, as though encouraging herself, raises her fist, and raps on the door.

* * *

Madeline rushes inside, gathering things up in her arms, as many things as she can carry. “We must leave,” she says, and the word spreads fast through the building, until their army are all within the one room, their things clutched to their chests, bags slung across shoulders, mothers and daughters alike together. Lydia is the only one without her child.

“Madeline,” she asks, and earns a withering look in return. Her heart sinks. Emma has not been successful. The hunter killed her.

The women around her begin rushing around to take the last of their things, making their way outside to their cars, Madeline overseeing everyone with her steely gaze. Lydia sits for a moment, her hand clutched to her chest, trying to reckon with the devastating feeling someone has taken her heart and torn it from her chest. She thinks of her daughter, the smile she will never see again, and stifles a sob. She must not cry in front of her sisters. A warrior does not cry.

She pulls it together long enough to ask what town they are going to next, a fresh start, a place she can try again to correct her great shame. Madeline pauses for one moment to give her a stiff pat on the back, and reminds her that the next one will turn out right. Lydia nods numbly and agrees, averting her eyes. She cannot handle this now.

The plan in her mind is pretty simple, but she waits until the majority of her sisters are gone to start acting. In the front of her car, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and then quietly heads to the motel, pausing outside. The Impala is still there, the trunk hanging open as the two hunters stuff their things inside. She cannot see Emma anywhere, but then, in the darkness, she watches as they pull her daughter’s body out of the motel room and into the car like it is nothing, like they have moved a dead body a thousand times in their lives, even if that body was their own kin. She cannot bear to watch, so she leaves, pulling over on the side of the highway to wait, because there is only one place in this town worth dumping a body, and if they’re smart - they are - they’ll be rid of her before any cops come sniffing their way around.

It is painful to think of Emma this way, discarded. She curls her hands into fists and does not let the emotion take over, lets the pain from her nails in her palms cut her into calm. Pain is the greatest tool a warrior wields. From pain comes strength, and this is the strongest she has ever been. Lydia watches as the Impala drives past, and waits, biding her time until she can follow it. After half an hour or so, it drives back the other way, hitting the highway and speeding up, trying to escape their crime. Trying to escape what they did to her.

Lydia speeds to the field outside town, tucked away behind some farmland at the edge of one of Washington’s many forests. It takes her a while to find the grave because it is hidden in a copse of trees, but there’s no mistaking the freshly turned earth. She parks the car and leaves the headlights on, giving her some light to work with as she goes to return her daughter from the earth.

She uses the shovel first, digging and digging and digging, wondering how far down they put her baby, if they had shown her any respect at all, if they had left her with a coin to cross the river on the other side. She gets about three feet in and her shovel comes back with blood, so she throws herself in the hole, sobbing and throwing the soft earth away with her hands, ignoring the grime that wriggles its way beneath her finger nails, into her skin. She feels something warm and cries out in relief, taking Emma’s hand and pulling her free, her limp body slumping forward into Lydia’s arms. Lydia brushes the dirt out of Emma’s long blonde hair and off her beautiful face, her body shaking, tears streaming down her face. She pulls her close and holds her, rocking back and forth, damp creeping up her skirt from the gravedirt beneath her. Emma is still.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” Lydia sobs, brushing more dirt off her face, cupping her cheek with one hand. “Please wake up.”

Emma’s body makes no signs that it is going to revive, but Lydia has to have faith. She has to hope. She climbs out of the hole and hooks her arms around Emma’s chest, pulling her up and out of her grave, her hands sticky with blood. She wipes them on her skirt and tucks a strand of Emma’s hair behind her ear, staring down at her white face, willing her to wake up, but there’s still nothing. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and gathers her daughter’s body in her arms, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her head, cradling her like a baby. Blood oozes from the wound in her middle, soaking through her pink shirt, covering Lydia in red. She does not care. “You’re going to be okay,” Lydia whispers to her daughter’s body. “I promise.”

She lays Emma down on the back seat, covering her with a blanket. She must move quickly, before the other Amazons find her. It is the greatest shame for a daughter to fail her initiation, but worse still is the mother who tries to save her child. It is seen as a weakness. Lydia stares at Emma’s still body and wipes her tears on her sleeve. This, she knows in her heart, is not weakness. This is the most difficult thing she’s ever had to do. She inhales deeply and pulls out onto the highway. The Amazons had planned on heading south - so she will go north. Cross the border if she has to. She has to get as far away from them as possible if they are going to survive.

After serious injury, an Amazon’s body goes into a kind of coma to survive - one of their many biological differences from humans. Lydia had only seen it once before, but she knew there was still a chance for her daughter. She just needs to get her somewhere safe, somewhere her body could begin to recover, and give her the time it would take to heal. Even now, on the inside, Emma’s organs would be shifting themselves back into place, the blood rushing through her veins would be producing more to make up for the loss, and her heart - which would have slowed down to an imperceptible few beats every minute - would be gathering its strength to complete the healing process. Lydia’s only hope was that she wasn’t too late.

She pulls into the parking lot of an old, beat-up motel and kills the engine, looking back at Emma laying on the backseat. She walks inside quietly, books a room for a day, and pays in cash, knowing she has to get Emma inside without anyone noticing. It’s not as hard as she thought it would be - the clerk heads back inside after giving her the room key, and not long after the lights inside are off. She pulls Emma out of the car slowly, hoisting her body over her shoulder, staining her shirt with blood. She ignores the sickly feeling of warm blood leaking over her shoulder and down her arm, and carries her daughter into the relative safety of their room. They’re not far enough away from the Amazons that she feels safe yet, but they are far away enough that she can take a break, let Emma revive. She knows, with a disgusting weight in the pit of her stomach, that the more time passes before Emma wakes, the less likely it is she will wake at all, but she’s not giving up on her little girl yet.

Once inside, she lays Emma on the couch and strips the bed, tearing the blanket off the bed and shaking it out, just to be sure. She lays the blanket across the table, and then carries Emma’s body over, laying it down. She pulls off Emma’s shirt and jeans, leaving her laying there in her underwear, and with what remains of the shirt she wipes some of the blood and dirt from Emma’s skin. She almost bursts into tears again when she realises the flesh of Emma’s abdomen is knitting itself back together, slowly but surely. A bit of silver is poking out from the wound. Inhaling sharply, she digs her fingers in, praying she gets it all. She manages to pull out the bullet mostly in one piece, pressing down to make the other piece of shrapnel poke through the skin so she can pull it free. With the bullet removed, the flesh begins to repair faster, the wound closing slowly. Lydia drops the bullet on the floor and kneels beside the table, her palms flat on its smooth surface, watching Emma’s chest. The wound is almost gone, now, just bloodstained skin and a pink scar to show for it.

Lydia stares at her daughter’s beautiful face. She has her father’s pretty features, her mother’s delicate lips. The skin beneath her eyes is like the bruised skin of a peach, angry, ugly, but it too will heal with time. Harmonia’s gifts leave her daughters strong - strength, beauty, intelligence, and most of all, the ability to heal. Harmonia’s daughters are built to survive. She clasps her hands and bows her head, and quietly she starts to beg Harmonia her daughter will wake up. She pleads for forgiveness, for understanding, but most of all, she pleads that Emma has not taken her last breath, that Emma, sweet Emma, her first, her only, will breathe again.

Emma takes in a sharp, shuddering breath, bolting upright, her eyes gold. Lydia scrambles to her feet, placing a steadying hand on Emma’s shoulder as her daughter sucks in air, bringing her knees to her chest, whole body shaking.

“Emma,” Lydia sobs, grabbing her face and kissing her forehead, and Emma reaches up, bewildered, and grabs her hand. They hold each other, unwilling to move, both crying.  _ You are safe now _ , Lydia thinks.  _ Nobody will ever hurt you again _ .

“Mama,” Emma breathes, her voice hoarse. She spits dirt from her mouth and wipes it on the back of her hand. “You came back for me.”

They fall onto the couch together, holding each other like neither will ever let go. Lydia has no intention of it, because she has her baby back in her arms at last. Her hand sits on Emma’s chest, feeling the dull  _ thud thud thud _ of her beating heart, and she thinks of when she could feel the dull  _ thud thud thud  _ of Emma kicking inside her. Both had the same affirming result: they were reminders her daughter was alive. The older woman, grimy, bloodstained, covered in dirt and shit, falls into a restless sleep, exhausted from their day of death and destruction. Emma, however, lays awake, holding onto her mother like a young babe, afraid if she closes her eyes and gives in to the darkness, the darkness will take her again and not give her back. She stares out the window, into the night, and is grateful her mother sacrificed so much to save her.  _ That is what mothers do _ , she can almost hear Lydia say, but Lydia herself just rolls in her sleep with a deep sigh.

Just as the sun rises, Emma finally falls asleep, grateful for the safety the light provides. She will sleep for hours, her body still healing on the inside, working to keep her heart steady and mind strong. Lydia wakes around midday and leaves Emma curled up on the couch, unpacking some clothes and placing them, folded, at the end of the bed. She showers first, wiping the dirt from her body and hair, washing herself clean. It feels good to be in clean, dry clothes that aren’t covered in all manner of disgusting things. She takes a seat on the bed and sips at a glass of water, watching her daughter sleep. Emma’s face is troubled, her arms tucked over her chest protectively, shielding where the wound in her upper abdomen would have been. It might still hurt. Lydia doesn’t want to think of what else might be causing her troubled sleep.

Emma startles awake, reaching for a blade that isn’t there, and sits for a moment struggling to catch her breath. Lydia is by her side instantly, holding her, rubbing her back, comforting her. The trauma of what she has been through will stick with her for a while - not many Amazons come back from an injury like hers. They have the capability, but it doesn’t happen often. In order for an Amazon to be killed, the heart must be destroyed - Emma’s is intact, but Lydia knows it was only just.

“I’m going to shower,” Emma says softly, releasing her grip on her mother’s hand. “See if that might make me feel better.”

The teenager towers over the showerhead and sighs, stooping low to get the water into her hair. She leaves streaks of mud across the tiled walls, watching as the rust-coloured blood and dirt swirl together down the drain. She scrubs and she scrubs, trying to rid her body of the feeling of her grave, and when it comes to the rough scar of her bullet wound she scrubs harder, as though she could scrub it right off her skin if she tried hard enough. It doesn’t vanish, though, just takes on a smarting pink tinge. She runs her fingers over it slowly, mapping the way her body as changed since she died and rose again. She doesn’t feel all that different, but she doesn’t feel the same either. Something imperceptible has shifted inside her. Exhaling slowly, she grabs the soap and starts to scrub again.

Emma towel-dries her dripping hair, smiling up at her mother brightly. Without the layer of dirt her skin is pale white and smooth, unmarred by scars or any indicator of age, except the angry red skin of her wrist. Lydia swallows when she sees it, her thumb slipping beneath her sleeve to rub the matching white scar there. Until she had a child of her own, Lydia had thought the way the Amazons had raised her, the trials of pain, were just. She was disgusted she had allowed them to do the same things to her daughter, and disgusted they had been done to her.

“Where are we going? What will we do?” Emma asks her, pulling a green t-shirt over her head. It brings out the tiny flecks of olive in her dark eyes.

“As far away from the tribe as we can get,” Lydia says, reaching over to pull Emma into a one-armed hug, smoothing down her damp hair and holding her close. Emma squirms away, giggling, and Lydia lets her go, knowing there will be so many more hugs and moments in their lives. She gives the room a once over, making sure they both have all their things, and then bids it, and this godforsaken city, farewell.

They sit in silence as they hit the road. It doesn’t take long to leave the outskirts of Seattle, to find the highway that will take them as far north as they can go, and Lydia breathes slowly, feeling as though a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. The road stretches ahead of them, winding its way through the mountains. The sharp scent of pine is in the air, the trees lining the road rustling their branches in the wind, dropping needles into the forest floor below. They have a long journey to go, but Lydia doesn’t mind. She’s just grateful to be safe, and to have her daughter beside her.

Emma turns up the music and leans out her window, letting the breeze toss her blonde hair back from her face, and closes her eyes. The setting sun bathes her in gold, and she smiles. 


End file.
